Boy Soldier and Beyond E-Book

Alan Brown

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

From his humble beginnings as a raw recruit aged 15 to his departure from the army aged 27 and a fully qualified Helicopter Air Gunner/Pilot, Alan Brown recounts anecdotes and tales from his life as a soldier in the British army in the 60s and 70s. This refreshingly frank and often funny book follows Alan as he begins his army career in The Junior Leaders Regiment, Royal Armoured Corps, something he describes as almost akin to an army boarding school, through his time as a tank gunner with The Royal Scots Greys and finally to his favourite role -that of Helicopter Air Gunner/Pilot in Germany with 655 Army Aviation Squadron.

Leseprobe

We Joined As Boys

But Left As Men

Contents

Part 1

In the Beginning

1962: Let The Adventure Commence

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor

1963: Intermediate Troop

Gunnery Troop

Education Troop

1964: Education Troop

Radio Troop

Driving Troop

1965: All Good Things Come To An End

Part 2

What a Welcome

OMO Soap Powder

Don’t Drink the Water

The Canada Cup

1966: It Ain’t Half Hot Mum

1967: Back to Reality − Well almost.

1968: Fighting Fit Once Again

1969: Back to Blighty

1970: All Change

1971: Six months ago I couldn’t even spell helicopter. Now I’m flying one.

1972: Knock, Knock

1973: The s**t hits the fan

Decisions, Decisions

PART 1

The Junior Leaders

1962 -1965

by

23923598 J/Tpr. Alan Brown

This is a somewhat humorous insight into what were probably my most formative years – aged 15 to 17½ − and the people, events and places that most certainly moulded me into the man that I am today.

1

In the Beginning

I was born in 1947 in Dundee, Scotland, into a typical working class family, comprising of my mum, who was an auxiliary nurse in an old folks home, Dad, a Sergeant in the local police force, and my big brother Derek. My younger brother, Graeme, arrived in 1956. In 1960 we moved from a much-loved prefab in Glamis Road, our home since Dad had been demobbed from the RAF after the war, to a brand new three bedroomed house on what was to become one of the biggest housing estates in Dundee – Menzieshill. In fact we were only the sixth family to move there and apart from our house, which sat at the end of a little cul-de-sac, much of the rest of the intended estate was nothing more than fields. Shops and other amenities such as the public bus service came a lot later. I and the few kids that lived there to begin with had to walk about a mile before catching the school bus. It felt like what I imagined it would be like to live out in the country, and with all the building work going on, at weekends we had loads of fun and great adventures exploring all the half-finished buildings and ‘playing’ on the various machines. We were forever getting into trouble with our parents on arriving home, usually late for tea and covered in muck and brick dust! Life was carefree and just great.

From the age of five I attended the Harris Academy, a very fine old school with an educational pedigree, for children aged five to eighteen, situated down in the Perth Road area of Dundee. Both my brother and I initially went to the primary school, however, my class was the last Primary intake. At the beginning of the sixties a decision was taken to turn the school into a secondary school only. This was mainly due to the exceedingly large numbers of parents who wished to enrol their children into what was a renowned academic and sporting establishment.

The school had many extracurricular events and classes, and shortly after starting secondary school I joined the Army cadets who paraded every Thursday night. Based in two old Nissan huts within the school grounds and affiliated to the ‘Parachute Regiment’, we all thought that we were the ‘bees knees’, dressed in our immaculately-pressed uniforms, sitting on the bus, usually on the top deck, showing off, puffing on our illegally purchased five Domino cigarettes. Afterwards we sucked a packet of strong mints to disguise the smell on our breath before going home so that our parents wouldn’t find out about the smoking. How gullible were we?

As well as spending most weekends training, exercising and camping down at Barry-Buddon Camp near Carnoustie, we also had a two week annual summer camp which usually took place in old wartime Army barracks or airfields. Not only was I in my element at all these camps, but it was the first time that I experienced any real travelling, whether by road or rail, due to the fact that as a rule, every second year the camps were usually held somewhere outside of Scotland.

Although I thoroughly enjoyed the sporting side of school life, especially playing rugby, had loads of school pals, and even though my teachers informed my parents that I had the brains to do well − if I were to put my mind to it I should pass both my ‘O’ and ‘A’ level exams with flying colours − I am afraid that from about the age of fourteen my mind started wandering. I was constantly wondering what to make of my life after school, which by then I couldn’t wait to escape from.

When you look back through my family tree then I suppose it was inevitable that I would end up in some sort of uniform, considering what Dad had done, and was doing, and also because my grandfather had been a senior warder up at the notorious Peterhead prison. Mind you, I still think that it came as quite a shock to my parents when I suddenly announced one day, towards the end of third year, that I wanted to leave school as soon as I possibly could in order to join the Army.

After getting over the shock and asking if I had definitely made up my mind, Dad came with me down to the Recruiting Office in Barrack Street where we met a Sergeant in the Scots Guards who tried everything under the sun to get me to join his regiment. However I was adamant that I only wanted to drive a tank.Until then I had never realised that there were so many different regiments, so it is probably true to say that ending up being badged to the Royal Scots Greys was down to luck more than judgement.

After taking the oath, swearing on the Bible, and with my shiny new signing-on shilling in my pocket, it was home to spend my last few weeks of freedom, dreaming of new adventures and untold, hopeful pleasures to come, as well as trying to console my tearful mother who kept mumbling something about ‘her wee boy going off, all alone, into the big, bad world’.

A few weeks later I received an Army Regimental Route and Movement Order which informed me that on the 10th of September I had to proceed and report to Bovington Camp, Dorset, England. Also included in the large brown, OHMS envelope was a single second class railway ticket from Dundee to some unheard of place called Wool. On the evening of the 9th September 1962, my parents drove me down to Taybridge Station. As well as packing my case, my mother had also made ‘a few sandwiches and snacks’ for the journey (I think I could have fed half the train). Everything was fine until the train pulled into the station which was when my mother started crying and wailing. Needless to say, that was the last time she went with me to the platform. From then on we said our farewells in the house before Dad would take me down to the station to see me off.

2

1962: Let The Adventure Commence

As the train pulled out of the station so the adventure started. And what an adventure it turned out to be!

I was only fifteen at the time and had never really journeyed far on my own before, but there I was, sitting on an overnight train to London. In London I then had to go from one side of the city to the other, using the underground, in order to change stations, before catching another train to this silly-sounding place in Southern England. I eventually arrived at Wool Station -

− only to find probably another one hundred and fifty like-minded souls aimlessly, but excitedly, wandering around, up and down the platform, not sure what to do or where to go next.

Out of nowhere, came this thunderous noise which some say was the voice of the devil:

“Quiet!”

“No talking!”

“Get on the buses and trucks and if I hear a whisper from anyone then you’ll all be walking to Camp.”

With that, a column of nervous, quivering wrecks clambered aboard the transport.

You could have heard a pin drop.

As the convoy moved further and further away from civilisation as we knew it, and towards our final destination, everyone was keeping note of all the turns and twists, just in case at a later date we got a chance to escape.

After all, we had just met the Devil, so surely we must be heading towards hell . . .

After what seemed like hours, but was really only minutes, we arrived at our journey’s end –

Stanley Barracks, Bovington Camp

The transport stopped outside what we were later to come to know as ‘Satan’s Headquarters’ or in anybody else’s eyes, as the guardroom.

The Devil, had now been joined by more of his helpers who had magically appeared from his nerve centre, and had obviously decided that there was to be no more Mr Nice Guy, as he shouted,

“Get f***ing fell in and keep f***ing quiet!” “Listen for your name being called, answering in a f***ing loud voice – Sir – as an acknowledgement!”

After the roll-call we were moved en masse as smartly as possible to our designated block which, like all the other accommodation blocks, was three floors high. Each floor had four large bedrooms, two at either end, separated by a wide corridor which ran the full length of the floor. Mid-point on each floor was a large assembly area complete with notice-board. On arrival at the block we were all assigned to our rooms. Each had eight single beds, three down each side and one either end. My room was on the middle floor, right-hand end, overlooking the back of the building. On entering, lying on his already made-up bed, closest to the door, was a young chap smoking a pipe. I, like the rest of my new room-mates, immediately thought from his demeanour that he was our room Corporal. He introduced himself as Percy Doughty. As all the other single beds looked the same it was just a case of which to choose. I decided to take the one in the middle of the three, which was under a window. Beside each bed was a tall, steel, green locker on one side and on the other, a small wooden bedside locker. Above the bed, attached to the wall, was a small personal light. The room very quickly filled up and all the beds soon had new occupants.

On my left was a guy, Neville Bottom, slightly older than me, very well-spoken, who played the violin – exceptionally well as it turned out. Unfortunately, none of us got to know him very well since a few weeks later he was transferred to the Officer Cadet Training establishment at Welbeck College in Essex. (For the duration of that term his bed-space was never reallocated, unluckily for me as it would turn out). On my other side was a ginger-haired chap from Bournemouth called Winston Maskell who was to turn out to be, and still is, my very best and closest friend.

That first night was a very pleasant and surreal one as we were allowed to wander round the block as well as having an hour’s chaperoned visit to the NAAFI (Navy, Army, Air force Institution) Services Shop and Canteen for some pop and sweets. The rest of the night was spent getting to know all our roommates and listening to their various travel adventures in getting here. All this chatting went on until very late into the night. I think that from our first night’s experience we all thought that Army life was really quite easy, relaxed and very enjoyable. Oh, how wrong we were! If only we had known what lay in store for us, I think most of us would probably have run a mile and caught the first train home.

3

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor

Junior Troop – designated by an all-black shoulder flash.

Each year was broken into three distinctive sections with an intake at the beginning of each section and a pass-off at the end. During each section we would be placed into a troop, i.e. our first troop name was ‘Junior Troop’ with our final one ‘Pass-Off Troop’. Depending on your age upon joining, that would determine how many sections / Troops you would complete. If, like me, you joined at fifteen and left at seventeen and a half then you completed eight.

The next morning, while it was still dark and most of us still happily in the land of the nod, we were abruptly and noisily woken up at 6:30am when a very uncouth and foul-mouthed person entered our room, strolled up and down, belting his pace-stick off the end of each bed, shouting at the top of his voice,

“Wakey, wakey, rise and shine! Hands off c***s, hands on Socks! Come on, get up! Welcome to the Army!”

Woe betide any person that was still in bed, or not suitably dressed, on his return after about five minutes. It transpired that this was our real room Corporal, and not Percy as we had all thought and which he had never contradicted. He was just one of us, so as you can imagine, he was ragged rotten for quite some time afterwards, as we had all bought him pop down at the NAAFI the previous evening, trying to butter him up in the belief that he was in charge of our room.

After breakfast we were instructed to assemble in our rooms and our Corporal came round to introduce himself and the other members of staff. As well as informing us that we were now all part of Junior Troop, we were also issued with our eight digit Army numbers which we had to memorise at once, because initially we had to quote it wherever we went and whatever we did. If we quoted incorrectly we would immediately be sent to the back of the queue and that would continue until such times as we were able to recite our numbers off by heart. (Still to this day I can remember and recite it instantly and without hesitation.)

On my first pay parade, and like many others, it took five or six attempts to get it right,

“23923598 Junior Trooper Brown A. Pay and pay-book correct, Sir”, before eventually being paid the princely weekly amount of 2/6d in my hand, with the other 10 shillings being compulsorily paid into my Post Office Savings Book to be used when on leave.

Later we were marched, after a fashion, down to the Quartermaster’s to be issued with all our kit. Standing in a line on the balcony of the QM’s block we were ushered into the storeroom one at a time, where we were assessed by this small but very intimidating Scotsman, an ex-serviceman who had the astonishing knack of being able to look a person up and down and instantly size them, including what size of boots they required.